Translation
by Quill and Saber
Summary: Despite living in the same household for six hundred years, Tauriel and Thranduil struggle to understand each other. Rated K-plus for some brief violent imagery.
1. What Tauriel Heard

The entire conversation of "Captain and King" confused me at first glance. It's completely inconsistent for Thranduil to be deliberately cold towards the woman he "protected and favored" for six hundred years, and it makes little sense for Thranduil to talk to Tauriel about Legolas liking her when she isn't interested. So, there's got to be some major context that we're missing and—if her facial expression is any indicator—a mystery that Tauriel will eventually want to solve.

The contents of this story are movie canon compliant.

* * *

Thranduil was not the world's best communicator, particularly when he was in a foul mood. This had been one of the universal truths of Tauriel's existence since the summer he had taken her under his wing, and as she steeled herself just out of sight of the clearly-irritated king, it was not lost on her that it still took concentrated effort to interpret his words into statements with relevant meaning.

"I know you're there. Why do you linger in the shadows?"

_Translation: Come in; I'm not busy._ For Thranduil, that passed as reasonably warm, particularly when he was steaming about something.

"I was coming to report to you." She clicked her heels together and nodded, waiting for the questions he was sure to have about her highly eventful patrol.

"I thought I ordered that nest to be destroyed not two moons past."

_Translation: What happened?_

"We cleared the forest as ordered, my lord, but more spiders keep coming up from the south. They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could but kill them at their source—"

Thranduil gave her That Look. Tauriel knew what That Look meant, and she stopped talking, her feet rooting from pacing she had not noticed until that moment.

"That fortress lies beyond our borders. Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures, that is your task."

_Translation: You are not going to go fight spiders in enemy territory where there's the slightest chance of things going wrong, missy._ It was exasperating. It had taken her forty-eight years to convince him to let her accompany patrols within the borders and another forty-eight to lead them. At the rate this was going, the spiders were going to get to proliferate in relative peace for a full yén and spread to who-knows-where.

"And if we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?"

"Other lands are not my concern."

_Translation: I meant it. You are not leaving this kingdom._

"The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here in this kingdom, we will endure."

Tauriel would have rolled her eyes if she wasn't absolutely certain that Thranduil would catch it. He repeated that phrase so often it made her wonder whether he believed it thoroughly or was trying to convince himself that he believed it. It was, however, a statement she could not argue with, and she turned to leave.

"Legolas said you fought well today. He has grown very fond of you."

At first, Tauriel was elated, but after a second the true meaning of his second comment hit her. _Translation: Legolas wants to pursue you as a man pursues a woman._ It was extremely uncomfortable knowledge. It wasn't as if it were a brand-new revelation, but before it had only been her own suspicions and a few passing jokes (well, as close to jokes as Thranduil could manage). This was the first time it was spoken of seriously.

" I assure you, my lord, Legolas thinks of me as nothing more than the captain of the guard." Could they, perhaps, pretend to ignore it? She was certainly willing.

"Perhaps he did once. Now, I'm not so sure."

_Translation: We are not going to pretend to ignore it. I am not going to permit him to pursue you, and he cannot know the reason why._ The last part of the translation was coming through very surely this time. Thranduil had probably never wasted a word in his life; there had to be a reason he was talking with her about the matter she had neither instigated nor encouraged.

But Tauriel did not know what the reason was. More to the point, she could think of no reason for the prohibition.

Thranduil would have to react to a guess, wild as it might be. "I do not think you would allow your son to pledge himself to a lowly silvan elf."

"No, you're right."

His answer was far too quick, and she knew what he meant quite clearly. _Translation: That is not the reason, and we both know that's not the reason, but it is a far more convenient answer than the actual reason._

"Still, he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

_Translation: You are going to have to break his heart one way or another. Try to do it gently._

It was an answer that left her wanting to ask questions, wanting to know everything that she could not yet translate, but she knew a dismissal when she heard one. But where to go? The only thing she was sure of was that she wanted to completely avoid Legolas until she had a chance to sort through the jumbled thoughts and guesses that were bouncing through her head.

The dungeons. Of course. She would have a perfectly reasonable excuse to be down there, and there was a practical guarantee that Legolas would _not_ be there. Besides, she thought as she left Thranduil's presence, that tall dwarf might be a welcome distraction from her current plagues. Dwarves, at least, could not confuse her.

* * *

Some of the numbers here might seem bizarre. This is because—drumroll—elves have a duodecimal counting system rather than a decimal system, i.e. base twelve instead of base ten. We can kind of get the same feel by counting in dozens and grosses (144). A yén is 144 years, which is the unit by which elves recount history, much like our century. _Firith_, which will be used in the next chapter, is one of the six seasons acknowledged by elves, roughly corresponding to the last part of autumn.


	2. What Thranduil Remembered

Thranduil had a headache. It was a condition that was reportedly rare among his people, but the medical texts must have been written by pathological liars who had never raised children. The dwarves had been enough of a hassle, but Legolas had to choose _that particular day_ to make an announcement of intentions that had ended in a hissing, half-whispered shouting match, which is how all their conversations seemed to end of late. He only had a few minutes of respite before he noticed the presence of his captain and ward.

"I know you're there. Why do you linger in the shadows?"

He knew perfectly well why she was lingering. She had an innate sense of when he was annoyed—and he very much was—but she would have left if there was nothing to discuss. Let all the leaves of firith fall at the same time, then.

"I was coming to report to you."

It must be the patrol report. Stars above, save him from having to discuss the dwarves again.

"I thought I ordered that nest to be destroyed not two moons past." Spiders were only slightly more pleasant to discuss than dwarves, but there was no way to turn this particular patrol report into anything pleasant, so he might as well pick his battle.

"We cleared the forest as ordered, my lord, but more spiders keep coming up from the south."

Of course they were. It wasn't as if Tauriel had ever shirked work. She relished it, in fact, with a zeal that was sometimes disturbing.

"They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could but kill them at their source—"

Thranduil's eyes narrowed, and Tauriel wisely fell silent. He had heard her views on this before, and he was not in the mood for another prolonged argument.

"That fortress ruins lies beyond our borders. Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures, that is your task."

It was obvious to anyone who remembered the Great War that the spiders that managed to enter the Woodland Realm were only small scouting parties, but small scouting parties could be dispatched easily, and the borders could be maintained. The ruins of Dol Guldur, on the other hand, would be crawling with hundreds, if not thousands, of spiders, and that would be in addition to the orcs he was sure had not moved from that crumbling fortress in the last twelve yén. It would be madness to attack.

"And if we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?"

Why was she so determined to argue? It was exasperating, even more so because he knew very well that she'd learned that from watching him.

"Other lands are not my concern. The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here in this kingdom, we will endure."

Tauriel did not remember the last time that Thranduil had—with great reluctance—permitted an attempt to kill the spiders closer to their source, but Thranduil did, all too well. He remembered searching through the rubble of the outpost, hoping to find some hint that anyone, anything had survived the destruction. He remembered finding the only survivor, a tiny red-haired girl barely past toddling, who had hidden obediently in a cupboard while the woman who was clearly her mother was run through with a spear outside the front door. He had been able to cover her eyes then, keep her ignorant of just how brutally competent the foul things of the world could be, keep her safe from the flashes of memory that danced in front of his eyes even now. The red-haired woman. The severed head of his son's mother. All his sins and failures—moral, regnal, and parental.

Parental.

Legolas.

Something had to be done about Legolas and Tauriel, and it had to be done _today_ before the boy started an avalanche of misfortune.

"Legolas said you fought well today. He's grown very fond of you." Thranduil's words halted Tauriel where she stood, and her face fell as it sunk in exactly what was meant by "fond."

Tauriel looked down, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "I assure you, my lord, Legolas thinks of me as nothing more than the captain of the guard." It was a lie, but he could not blame her for it. Very likely, it was how she wished things were. It was how _he_ wished things were, and it would have been good to hear had it been true, but that lie was wearing far too thin to continue to be pressed into service.

"Perhaps he did once. Now, I'm not so sure." Understatement of the age, and that truth was only magnifying his headache. Wine, he needed wine. It might not resolve the pain, but it would at least dull it, and the glass bottle on the other side of the room was practically singing enticements to get him to imbibe. As he approached his old friend of a beverage, Tauriel's voice crackled.

"I do not think you would allow your son to pledge himself to a lowly silvan elf."

Where on earth that excuse had come from in Tauriel's brain, Thranduil did not know, but this was not a time for examining gift horses. "No, you're right." He poured the sweet red drink into a goblet, his hands less steady than usual for all the stressors of the day. "Still, he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

Once Tauriel's retreating footsteps were out of range, Thranduil drank the wine in a single swallow before pouring himself another. Dignity be damned, now was the time for forgetting.


End file.
